


In quiet sunlight

by tinygreyghost



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 14:57:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3294653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinygreyghost/pseuds/tinygreyghost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the dragon-age kink meme. </p>
<p>Cassandra witnesses a moment of shameless affection between the Iron Bull and Lavellan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In quiet sunlight

Cassandra doesn’t intend to spy on them, but she’s come down to the river to rinse the blood out of her undershirt when she hears voices. 

“Frigging grit gets in under the edges. Scratches like a demon,” says the Iron Bull. Lavellan is walking at his side, carrying a shallow basin in his hands with a couple of towels over his arm. Late afternoon sunlight glints off the bowl like it’s lyrium in it rather than simple water.

“I crushed enough elfroot leaves into this to help heal anything short of decapitation,” says Lavellan. He gestures to a flat boulder, and the Iron Bull obediently sits on it. Lavellan kneels at his side. 

The difference in size between them is even more pronounced than usual. It’s not something Cassandra tries to think about much, but she always stunned that they seem to manage such a _physical_ relationship when Lavellan is surely not much bigger than some of the weapons the Iron Bull uses on the battlefield. 

She doesn’t mean to watch, but she’s concealed from them behind an outcrop of rock, and there’s still a browny patch of old blood on her shirt. She works the fabric beneath the clear river water, and can’t help the occasional glance in their direction. 

“Take it off,” says Lavellan. 

The Iron Bull doesn’t move at first. “It’s not pretty,” he says, in a warning tone. 

Lavellan shrugs and waits.

Eventually, the Iron Bull reaches up to his face and works the buckles on the straps that hold his eyepatch in place. It hasn’t even occurred to Cassandra to think about what’s beneath it. She’s heard how it happened: the Iron Bull took a flail swipe meant for Krem Aclassi, before the man was even his second-in-command.

The Iron Bull lifts the eyepatch away, and even Cassandra raises her eyebrows at the sight of what’s below. The flesh is mangled, heavy in some places and strained in others where it’s healed badly. The eye itself remains, milky white and half covered by the eyelid that droops under the weight of such scarring.

Gaze fixed on the scar, Lavellan presses his lips together and doesn’t speak for a long moment. He runs his fingertips along the hollow of the Iron Bull’s eye socket, just above the cheekbone, delicately exploring the shape of the scars. The Iron Bull holds still and lets him touch.

“You’re a good man, kadan. And very brave.”

_Kadan_. She’s heard them refer to each other as such before. She doesn’t know the exact meaning, but the sentiment is obvious.

Lavellan dips one of the towels into the basin, wrings the excess wet from it, and lifts it to the Iron Bull’s eye. His touch is infinitely gentle, as if the Iron Bull, huge and horned and savage, is made from fine Orlesian porcelain. Although Lavellan’s a mage and not a warrior, Cassandra knows he’s stronger than his birdlike frame suggests. He washes the dirt from the Iron Bull’s skin, his touch is tender, as though the hurt is fresh instead of years old.

They’re quiet together, only disturbed by the occasional, restful sound of water dripping back into the bowl. While Lavellan concentrates on his task, the Iron Bull concentrates on him. The next time Lavellan rewets his towel, the Iron Bull catches his hands. His fingers engulf Lavellan’s slender wrists. He turns Lavellan’s hands this way and that, studying them intently. 

A puzzled smile growing on his face, Lavellan finally asks, “What?”

“You’ve got tiny hands, boss, you know that?” the Iron Bull says. “They’re pretty, but tiny.”

“No. I’ve got totally normal-sized hands. Just everything looks tiny compared to you.” 

The Iron Bull laughs and doesn’t argue. Instead, his good eye still fixed on Lavellan, he lifts each hand to his mouth in turn, and lays a lingering, open-mouthed kiss on the palms. Lavellan’s smile fades, his lips part softly as he gazes back at the Iron Bull, and Cassandra wonders if she should turn away.

“Stop distracting me,” says Lavellan, in good-natured rebuke. He drops his eyes to the basin once more, but Cassandra sees the flush in his cheeks, watches the deeper rise and fall of his chest as he catches his breath.

He’s diligent in his work, and the Iron Bull seems to content to sit there and allow him to minister to him. When he’s satisfied with his washing, Lavellan picks up the other towel and pats the Iron Bull’s skin dry. He takes his time.

“Done,” he announces finally. 

“Good,” says the Iron Bull and, snaking his arm around Lavellan’s slight waist, he hooks him in close, hauling him onto his lap. The way he kisses Lavellan is bordering on obscene. It would be close to an assault in its hungry intensity if Lavellan did not arch up into it so willingly. The Iron Bull’s hands tight on Lavellan’s hips, the way Lavellan squirms as he straddles him, the increasing fierce way the Iron Bull claims his mouth, all paint a vivid picture for Cassandra of their lovemaking.

Breathless and bright-eyed, Lavellan braces his hands against the Iron Bull’s massive shoulders, reaches up and presses a kiss to his ruined eye. 

“Was that ‘thank you’?” he asks playfully. His mouth is wet and red.

“The short form,” the Iron Bull says. His hands curve around Lavellan’s ass, thumbs flicking backwards and forwards, apparently just to enjoy the handfuls of flesh. “’Sides, how’s it fair if I sit here letting you touch me if I don’t get to put my hands all over you in return?”

Lavellan’s laughter is little more than a huff of air. He bows his forehead to the Iron Bull’s and the silence hangs between them like a moment of something sacred. 

Cassandra’s cheeks prickle at intruding on them, but before the shame can grow too hot in her belly, the Iron Bull releases Lavellan, and says, “Come on, boss, better head back to camp before they send a search party.”

Lavellan gets to his feet, empties the basin into the river, then waits while the Iron Bull replaces his patch. He reaches out and catches the Iron Bull’s hand in his own to pull him to his feet. All too briefly, their hands entwine as they start to walk. Cassandra knows they’d never return to the camp that way though and, as expected, they separate after seconds. Their bodies stay very close to one another as they walk away

After they’re gone, Cassandra muses to herself that it’s not the love story she might have expected. She finds, however, that she likes it very much all the same.

Warmed by the summer sunshine, she resumes her washing, humming softly to herself.

end


End file.
